Angel of Music

Enter at Last

Returning to my apartment after my morning at the school, I sigh.

I've come so far in these five years, and yet I haven't done anything worthwhile. My violin skills have surpassed belief, hundreds of pieces memorized and practiced until they are flawless, and yet I've never played in a real orchestra, or even performed for anyone aside from my cat and that girl from a few days ago. Not that I care to, really- I don't like people, especially not crowds- but it would be a good experience to have under my belt. My piano is coming along nicely, although I hate having to commute to the school to practice, with any student I happen to meet openly gawking while the more polite teachers avoid my eyes. I have composed the better part of a musical that will never see the light of day, in addition to several other, shorter pieces, doomed to the same fate.

I glance at the clock. It is a little after ten. I have so much time these days, and so little to fill them with. I am taking an online college course, but I can only handle so much information before I have to stop for the day. I practice piano in the mornings, though my time there is limited by the school's schedule. My violin lies in the corner, and though I am an excellent violinist, it doesn't hold any excitement for me anymore. I am too good, I have played for too long. I don't mean to sound arrogant or proud, but it is a fact uncontested that I am the best violinist in my town, and quite likely, further. I have had a lot of practice.

I sit down on my battered, thrift-store couch and log in to my laptop to begin studying.

I am taking courses in music theory and architecture. I love designing buildings, especially odd ones. There are enough people who create normal offices, perfectly straight rows of windows marching up to the sky surrounded by a simple brick grid. I try to create masterpieces, designed for beauty rather than simple functionality. I especially love windows and mirrors, the way they add so much light and space to a room.

One year, I spent the autumn working at a county fair. They shuffled the employees around the attractions, so some days I would take tickets from people before they climbed into the ferris wheel, and on others I would sell cotton candy to greedy children. My favorite, however, was the maze of mirrors. It was a simple maze, really, but the walls were oriented so that it was impossible to tell which way was a passage and which way was a wall. My job was to rescue the poor children who shuffled their way through half of the way before getting disoriented or frightened. At the end of the day I would clean each window pane so that there would be no tell-tale fingerprints or streaks.

I was fascinated by those mirrors, and how people reacted to them. Children would start out laughing as their reflection giggled back from every angle. They would reach out their short, pudgy arms and grope their way along the glass until they either made it out or gave up. Teens would usually find the trick, looking at the ground rather than the walls. While we were careful with the mirrors, they were old, so the reflection was slightly tinted. Not a lot, but enough to tell the real floor from the reflection when they were right next to each other. Adults would often figure it out too, but there were many who let their pride stop them from cheating and would fight their way through the maze, feeling for the path with their foot before they committed to taking a solid step. They were too afraid of making a fool of themselves, afraid of running into the glass and looking foolish, that they forgot to enjoy the maze.

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It is a week later, after hours of music theory and the occasional sandwich break, that my phone rings.

I jump. It never rings. I don't know anyone and no one knows me, at least, not well enough to call. Then I remember my flyers. Could this be a potential student?

"Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Christy. Are you the one who ran the ad for violin lessons?"

"That's me. My name's Erin."

"I have a few questions." Her voice is high and almost familiar... But I can't place it.

Maybe it isn't so familiar after all. Where would I know her from, anyway? "Yeah? What can I help you with?"

"How much do you charge per lesson?"

That's a good question. I should have thought this whole thing out more. I have never had formal
lessons, so I don't know what price is customary. Thinking on my feet, I spout the first number that comes into my head. "Twenty! Dollars, I mean. And... fifty cents. Yeah. Per hour?" The end comes out as a question, and I silently curse myself. Why not just say twenty? I bite my lip and wait for her to respond.

"Cool. What times do you have available?"

How sweet. She thinks I have other students. Or a life.

"That depends on your schedule. I'm pretty flexible."

"Perfect. Could I come in Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons?"

"Yes! What time?"

"Is four okay?"

"Four's great!"

I give her my address and ask her if she wants to start as early as tomorrow. She readily agrees, and I smile. "See you then."

She hangs up and I let out a long breath I didn't realize I had been holding. I have a student! A companion! A friend! For three hours a week, I will have someone to talk to, to teach.

I race to my office and flip on the lights so I can look through my filing cabinets for some sheet music. I don't know what level she is at, so I pull out a few selections of varying difficulties. I write down Kristy's name and information on a sticky note and press it against the pile of music, as if I would forget anything about her.

Could this be the girl I saw last week? The one who complimented my playing and was confident and funny and made me feel normal?